


My Darling Oliver

by LCailan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 13:37:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9659660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LCailan/pseuds/LCailan
Summary: My darling Oliver, don't you know how much I love you?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Death_by_Quill](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Death_by_Quill) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
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> Round One Only  
> Theme: Obsession
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> Written for Round One of the Death By Quill Challenge hosted by the Slytherin Cabal on Facebook. Prompt was obsession and my couple was Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood. Please be aware that this story contains adult themes, non-con/rape, suicide, major character death and implied necrophilia.

**~*****~**

_Marcus Flint’s journal  
August 13th_

You are so bloody handsome. I just wish you’d smile at me the way you used to. That smile…I think that’s what made me fall in love with you.

I didn’t even know when I noticed you first. I think I remember telling myself that I was going to Quidditch practice early because my team needed the training. I think I remember that, yeah. Even though I spent _most_ of that time watching you fly, admiring the way you held your broomstick in your hands, wishing it were my cock.

Or maybe…maybe it wasn’t your smile. Maybe it was your voice. You don’t use that voice with me anymore. I miss it and it breaks my heart.

I remember listening to you coaching the Gryffindor team, your voice leading them whether you were aware or not. You didn’t know your ability to capture people; you didn’t know how you had captured _me._ I’ll never forget our first conversation; it was on the field. Your voice had been commanding and…it made me go all hard and soft at the same time. Was your brogue Scottish, I had wondered? Or maybe Irish? I don’t recall bloody caring much then, only _needing_ to hear your every word.

Your voice was like the richest honey – even when you spoke so sternly to me, criticizing me when I approached you – there was a note of sultriness beneath it. And – _Gods_ – I could taste your words, taste you on my lips…it made me shiver, made everything inside of me _fucking_ fall apart. 

I only noticed how handsome you were after…after you had already made me fall in love with you. I noticed how strong your arms were, how much I wanted to run my fingers through your hair, how everything about you was perfect even though it was impossible. How could one boy…one man be so perfect? I didn’t deserve you then; I don’t deserve you now. You are everything to me; you have my life, my devotion – you have everything.

**~***~**

_Marcus Flint’s Journal  
August 14th_

Do you know how hard it was for me to be away from you when we both left school? I followed your every move, you know. I read the sports section of all the papers I could get my hands on; I became the biggest fan of _Puddlemere United._ I clipped all your photos and put them into that scrapbook, do you remember? One of my most cherished memories will always be the look on your face when I showed you that book; the way your eyes watered with emotion and how shocked you were. You didn’t have to tell me you loved me then; I had already known.

You could have had anyone back then. You had always been my god but once you started playing professional Quidditch…you were _their_ god too. I followed your career; I went to as many games as I could. I was there - always there - and how I prayed that you would one day notice me, grace me with that smile and speak to me with your sweet voice. I prayed for the day when you would belong to only me.

They always thought I was a daft oaf but I’m not, Oliver. I know I’m not worthy of your time and attention and yet each time we saw each other in those sports-crazed throngs I could swear you were watching me with that same longing that I felt for you. So I let everyone call me stupid and harbored the secret hope that I wasn’t wrong, that you _did_ care for me.

That hope, darling, it got me through until that night. You know, the night you gave me the shock of my life and granted my innermost desires by coming home with me. Oh, by the gods, I’ll never forget the way you looked at me that night. You were trembling, do you remember? You were overwhelmed with emotions and I knew that. I remember reaching out to cup your face in my hands, telling you that everything would be okay, that it didn’t matter what others thought because we loved each other. 

I _still_ love you so _fucking_ much. 

**~***~**

_Marcus Flint’s Journal  
August 20th_

Do you remember that night, Oliver?

Sometimes I still laugh to myself when I think of how quickly we stumbled around in my dark flat, fumbling for each other and for the walls that led to my – now our – bedroom. We barely made it to the bed before you were tearing at my clothes, fisting them tightly as we began to make love. I reveled in your eagerness to have me naked and despite you never telling me, I knew it was your first time with a man. I tried to be gentle, my love. But I know I caused you pain; I kissed those tears away and I hated myself for them. I wanted our first time to be something you would remember forever because you deserved that…and more.

Somehow I recall knowing you would be loud; the sound of your muffled voice against the bed sheets caused me to shiver inside as my hands gripped your cock. Long after our bodies had stopped moving and you lay still beneath me, you still shivered at the touch of my fingers as I tenderly moved to pull you close against me as you fell asleep. But I did not sleep that night, Oliver. I lay there, awake, still feeling you writhing against me, feeling your fingers tearing against my shoulders and neck, and tracing my fingers along the scratches you had left, smiling at how passionate you had been. 

Long after those scratches had faded, I still ran my fingers along where they had been remembering that you had put them there. We were happy, don’t you think? Just you and I, my darling Oliver – you and I against the world. Those years that we spent together were the best of my life. 

**~***~**

_Marcus Flint’s Journal_  
August 21st

You’re ill now.

Oh, you won’t say it and I’m afraid to - but – the fire in your gorgeous eyes dies each day and you hardly ever speak now. I tell you every day how much you mean to me and how much I love you. But you can only look back at me almost as if you don’t understand. 

Your skin which had once been so beautiful, is now painted with gray from your illness and your once full lips are thin and as pale as winter. You don’t like to sit up in bed anymore; I’m afraid you are too weak.

You can’t imagine how I’ve blamed myself, my love. What am I doing wrong? What more can I do? Even as I sit here writing this I know I won’t abandon you even though I feel like you’ve abandoned me. I watch you wilting and I’m helpless to stop it. It’s not a sudden thing; it’s gradual, like a flower dying at summer’s end. 

**~***~**

_Marcus Flint’s Journal_  
September 2nd

You’ve stopped eating.

You won’t eat even though I cook for you ever day, bringing you platefuls of your favorites. Sometimes you’ll nibble but mostly you turn your head – especially when I attempt to feed you. 

I feel so helpless.

How will you get better if you do not eat? If only you could just get well…I know things would be back to normal; we could be happy again! That’s why I keep getting up, Oliver, morning after morning; hope that you’ll come back to me is what keeps me from falling into the despair I feel when I see how thin you are now. You’ve lost your Quidditch body; the curves and planes that I admired for so long have faded. The soft flesh I loved running my mouth along is now hardened and the bones beneath are a macabre silhouette. 

You look at me sometimes, I know. I can see you from the corner of my eye and it drives me insane wondering what you are thinking. Do I not love you enough? Am I not good enough? Have I done something wrong? I wish you could tell me, my love. 

But you never say anything. You can only look at me with those beautiful, sad eyes. 

**~***~**

_Marcus Flint’s Journal  
September 5th_

You no longer dress yourself; I have to help you. Sometimes you’ll still try to fight me, pushing at my hands with a sudden strength that makes my heart swell with hope. If you can muster the strength to fight my ministrations then surely you must be getting better, yes? 

It makes me happy to feel you struggle against me if only because of that. I hold on to you tightly as you fight me and our closeness gives me a thrill. But you bruise so easily and that makes me sad.

On those days when you are well enough and we make love, you no longer make a sound. But as it always has been, you feel so good beneath me. I tell you every time I touch you; I want you to know how much I love you and how desperate I am to have you get well.

Though you are fading you still tremble when I stroke your face or run my fingers through your hair. I know how much you’ve always loved having your hair touched and even though it’s thinning now I still help you wash and comb it and help you shave your face smooth. It’s these small things that bond us and I cherish each moment.

Oliver, you must know that the physical changes in you don’t matter to me; I’ve loved you for who you are much longer than for what you look like. Even as haggard as you now look there is no one more beautiful to me, no emotion to compare to how you make me feel. You are still just as perfect as you were the night you came home with me so many years ago. 

And I love you even more today than I did then.

**~***~**

_Marcus Flint’s Journal  
September 12th_

I know you hear me when I say I love you. It’s been quite some time since I’ve heard you say it back. I want so much to believe it doesn’t bother me, my love. I know you love me even though you can’t say it; you’re too weak, your throat too sore. Once you get better, we’ll be happy again, won’t we? But lately, I feel so guilty. I get mad at you when you don’t say you love me back. I don’t want to be angry; I know you’re unwell but if only you could try harder, just a bit harder…

‘Don’t you love me anymore?’ 

I’ve asked it a million times lately it seems. And you can never answer me, only gazing at me from across the room in our bed, tears filling your eyes as your body succumbs to trembling. All I can do is join you in bed, wrapping my arms around you and sobbing because there’s nothing I can do to make you better. 

I hold you tightly…and tighter still. The next day there are bruises on your arms and I grow sadder still.

**~***~**

_Marcus Flint’s Journal_  
September 16th

I don’t make you happy anymore. Oh, but you will never know how that truth has destroyed me. What can I do to make you love me? I can’t ask you that question as I fear the answer.

You lay in bed listlessly, your eyes half-closed, your skin clammy. I can’t even look at you because all I can think about is the letter opener and the gashes on your forearms where you tried to cut yourself over and over.

‘Is it the illness, Oliver? Can you no longer bear it? Or is it me? Do you want me to be different? I’ll change anything; I’ll change everything.’

But when you open your eyes – so bright against the alabaster hue of your flesh – the only sound from your lips is a sigh and the only movement is the turn of your head… _away from me._

Your cuts take ages to heal and I’m not smart enough with medicinal magic to help you. Yesterday you tore at your arms again, trying to re-open the wounds and the bandages bloomed bright red even as I gripped your fingers tightly begging you to _stop,_ to not _do_ that.

‘Why are you doing this? Why, when I love you so much? You have to get better, darling! You must!’ 

But my voice falls on deaf ears and you only shiver. 

I cannot live like this anymore and I finally find my voice – terrified to hear you might not love me anymore. 

‘I love you. I’ll do anything. What can I do?’

You turn your head to gaze up at me, shaking your head weakly. 

‘You know.’

I crave your voice like a thirsty man craves water.

You pull on the chains of the handcuffs that bind you to our bed. You yank at them desperately with whatever remaining strength you have. Strength you should be saving to get better so we can be happy again. 

The clanging sound of metal against bedframe is like nails on a chalkboard.

‘Let me go.’

You pull harder, watching me with desperation. 

‘ _Why_ won’t you let me go?’

I hate being angry with you, Oliver. Why do you do this to me?

**~***~**

_Marcus Flint’s Journal_  
September 17th

My dearest Oliver, you’ve stopped speaking; you don’t make a sound. You lay there whitish-gray as the skies outside and your hands are like ice when I hold them. You are gray but for the red marks around your neck; I just don’t know what to do. I only want to lay down next to you and hold you close, to forget everything….and so I do. 

I press my face against the cold stiffness of your neck, kissing you there. If only you were better. The coolness of the letter opener feels so good against my wrist and the stinging is so lovely as it cuts into flesh. So lovely…so perfect-

There is blond on the parchment and I feel weak. But you are with me so everything will be all right. I just know, I know-

*******************************************************

_September 19th_  
 _Daily Prophet_  


A twelve year mystery has been solved this morning after a tragic finding in an east London flat by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. An official has told the Prophet that the body of former Puddlemere United Quidditch player Oliver Wood has been discovered. Mister Wood was reported missing by his wife twelve years ago when he did not return home after a game in late September of two thousand. Though the investigation lasted over a year he was never found. Authorities are now certain that Mister Wood was abducted, kept against his will and then died from strangulation and malnutrition. He was found chained to a bed next to his captor, a Marcus Flint in what appears to have been a murder then suicide. The investigation is ongoing; stay tuned to the latest updates. 


End file.
